I spent the week on the training pitches, but my mind was elsewhere, on the youth team pitch. I had gone there searching for clarity, maybe inspiration, maybe a sign. I found both in the form of a 17-year-old striker named Chiquichano, who scored four goals in a 5–1 win.
Four goals. At seventeen.
And I couldn’t get a goal from players twice his age.

It made me think, are we overcomplicating this? We dominate matches, we create, we suffocate opponents with possession and structure, but when it comes to the final act… nothing.
And yet that kid needed no invitation.

But he’s young. Too young, maybe.

Still, Racing were next. Another giant, another battle. And I was five league matches without a win. Five. For a club with our ambition—for a club with my standards, it burns.

In moments like these, you lean on experience. So I turned to Wanchope, a player whose legs might be slower but whose heart has never dimmed. One moment of composure from him could be the difference.

We arrived at the stadium. My assistant Jorge was waiting with a sheet of paper and a grave expression.

“Boss… Wanchope picked up a knock in the last session.”

I stared at him.

“What do I do, Jorge?”

He hesitated, then said something simple and devastatingly true.

“Boss… our strikers aren’t scoring.”

But Chiquichano was.

I didn’t even finish my coffee.
“Go get him,” I told Jorge.

A few minutes later the boy walked in, eyes wide, boots in hand. Today, at seventeen he would lead the line for Huracán.

---

During warm-ups he looked sharp. No fear. Just rhythm, confidence, the instinct you cannot teach. I gathered the squad before kickoff.

“I’m tired of losing,” I told them. “Step it up.”

And to their credit, we did. Just like always. We dominated. Seven shots, four on target, control of the pitch, tempo, ideas, everything.

And then, just like always lately… disaster.

18th minute.

Gil misplaces a pass in midfield. One touch from them, a through ball between our centre-backs, and we’re 1–0 down. Their first chance. Their first moment.

My stomach twisted.

At halftime, I was calm but firm.
“More. I need more from you.”

But the football gods weren’t done punishing us yet.

46th minute.

Corner to Racing.
Header.
2–0.

The air left the stadium. Maybe even my lungs.

But then, like every great story came the spark.

52nd minute.

Waller wins the ball.
Switches wide to De La Fuente.
Overlap, cross to the near post.

CHIQUICHANO.
The kid. The debutant. The seventeen-year-old.

A thumping header, the kind even I would smile at.

His celebration arms wide, face alive ignited the entire stadium.
For a moment, I felt the old fire in my chest again.

Then, moments later, he was down.
Kicked in the back.
Injured.

Football… cruel as ever.

We pushed on.

76th minute.

A cleared corner, Alanis plays a one-two with Miljevic, strikes
2–2.
Comeback complete.

The players believed again. I believed again.

87th minute.

And then
Alanis with a delicate chip over the defence, Miljevic runs through, finishes—
3–2!

But no.

Flag up. Disallowed. Offside.

Full-time: 2–2.
Six league matches without a win.

But this time… I felt something different.
The comeback.
The fight.
The debut goal from a boy who wasn’t even supposed to be here today.

We’re still 4th in the league. Still in the fight. Still building.

Maybe the rough patch is ending. Maybe the storm is passing.

And maybe, just maybe the future of this club scored his first goal today.